


Learning the Womanly Arts

by fawatson



Category: Puck of Pook's Hill Series - Rudyard Kipling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-05 21:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: Una practices.





	Learning the Womanly Arts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thimblerig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thimblerig/gifts).



> **Request:** : I would be very happy with an original flavour story where the kids meet an interesting historical character. (Preferably a woman, though.)
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit by them. 
> 
> **Author's Notes:** Clara Schumann was an experienced and distinguished concert pianist before she met and married Robert Schumann and continued her career while married and after his death. She was a well-respected composer as well as musician and also taught music. Unusual for concert pianists in her day, she normally performed from memory. She visited Britain several times and gave many concerts in London to wide acclaim.

Una felt thoroughly put out. Dan had been taken off for the day by their father and she had not been allowed to go. Not because she was younger. That she would not have _liked_ but she could have accepted. It is, after all, the perennial source of disgruntlement for younger children that peers only _slightly_ older to them are allowed all sorts of privileges denied to the younger sibling. And unfair as it _always_ was, Una had learned there was no answer to ‘next year when you’re older dear’ than simply to accept it. The catch was that _next_ year she would be allowed what she was refused _this_ year, only to be denied something else. She did not like that she would never catch up to her older brother. But _Dan_ never made any distinctions when they went out together for rambles on sunny afternoons. Only grown-ups did. So, she could live with it. 

Today, however, things had been different. She had not been told she could not go because she was too young; she had been told it was because she was _girl_. That being a girl would influence what she was allowed to do was not a new concept to Una; she had always known her mother and father led quite different lives and that, some day she would follow her mother’s lead and become a wife and mother because that is what women did. But that was years away, not _now_. To add insult to injury, Dan, normally the most supportive of companions who was the first to go along with her suggestions about what to play or to include her in his own games, had turned top-lofty and _jeered_ at her for wanting to come along. They had exchanged insults and Una had been told that not only must she stay at home, she must spend the next hour practicing. 

“I had planned to take you with me on my visit to Mrs Cholmondeley; her two daughters Judith and Sophie are slightly older than you but I expect you would have enjoyed playing with them nonetheless,” said Mother. “But not when you are in this kind of mood and cannot be trusted to behave yourself.”

And so, Dan went off to Portsmouth with Father to discuss joining the navy while Una stayed at home with the servants. In disgrace, no less. Set _scales_ to do. And to add insult to injury it was a lovely sunny day outside – the first decent day since a series of drizzly afternoons had confined Dan and Una to the confines of the house (not that exploring the attics and playing dress-up with the contents of old clothes found in dusty trunks had not had its charms). Through the open window chirping birds invited her to joint them. Una might have defied her mother and slipped outside to play with the kittens in the barn or run after the sheep in the meadow, or gone to old Hobden’s cottage to see if the Bee Boy had time to spare. After all, Mother had gone visiting and was not there to stop her. But Una had been warned that Mother planned to ask Maisy when she got back whether Una really had done as she was told. 

Una had resigned herself at that point. If Mother was going to check with the servants later then there was no wiggle-room. And so here she sat, frown on her forehead and sulky twist to a mouth that normally perked upwards in a smile, trying to make sense of the dots and lines they called _music_. 

From the window seat opposite, peeking out from behind the green velvet curtains, Puck grinned, then winced as scales went badly wrong, followed by a particularly discordant sound caused by a loud banging of fists on piano keys. 

“Stop that at once!” came the firm command, as a petite lady in fine grey wool with tiny white ruffles at her neck and wrists crossed to the piano to stand behind Una. “No piano deserves to be treated with such disrespect, not even an upright.”

“But I cannot get it to do what it’s _supposed_ to,” complained Una. 

“What _it’s_ supposed to?” challenged the lady. 

Una shrugged. “I don’t _like_ piano,” she admitted. “It’s not like exploring the woods, or wading in the stream. Those are fun. It’s all these stupid notes,” she gestured to the sheet music propped in front of her, “and _scales_ , which trip up my fingers so it always comes out wrong.” Her voice was scathing. 

“Perhaps you should try a tune,” suggested the lady calmly. 

“My teacher won’t let me,” explained Una. 

“Try this one,” the lady suggested, and sat beside Una on the bench. Her hands rippled over the piano, stroking each key lightly, and a pretty but simple tune emerged under her expert ministrations. 

Una’s face lit up. “But where’s the music?” she protested. 

“In your heart,” came the reply. “I always play from memory, and am guided by what the composer intended, not the notes on the page. Of course, it does help that I knew the composer.” 

“Who was he?” asked Una, entranced by the gentle melody - _nothing_ like the exercises her teacher always set. 

The lady smiled and continued to played with her left hand while she held out her right to Una. “Allow me to introduce myself: Clara Schumann. That piece was my husband’s, and this piece…” Seamlessly she shifted from one piece to another, no less delicate and lovely, but different. “This is mine.” 

Una looked surprised. “Girls don’t compose music,” she said, “they just grow up and have babies.” 

Mrs Schumann laughed. “I did both.” The piece she was playing ended with a trill of notes. “Now, give me your hands…and you place them so….”

When Mother returned late in the afternoon she was gratified to hear music coming from the drawing room as she drew the pin from her hat and handed gloves to Maisy who stood waiting by the door. She was even more pleased when the parlour maid told her, “Miss Una’s been hard at it all afternoon Ma’am.”

“Mother!” cried Una, looking round as the drawing door opened, and she fairly flew off her chair and rushed to give her mother hug. 

“That sounded really quite good, Una,” praised Mother. “See what a little practice will do?” 

A brief gust of wind blew in oak and ash leaves from the trees overlooking the window; Una’s mother crossed to close the window. 

“Our Indian summer is over, I fear,” she said, “It’s turned quite chilly all of a sudden; and look, the rose is quite withered” 

She handed the bud vase with its single blossom and surrounding foliage to her daughter. 

“Take this to Cook and tell her we are ready for afternoon tea.”


End file.
